


Home is the Hero

by cornelia_h



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Aging, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Related, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunions, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24389110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornelia_h/pseuds/cornelia_h
Summary: Some things weren't too late to change.It had been a decade since the funeral of Lois Lane. Superman returned to Earth after a year of travel in space and survived a deadly battle against Armorgeddon. Reminded of his own aging and mortality, Clark Kent reunited with Bruce Wayne.Based on Superman Beyond #0 and Superman/Batman Annual #4, especiallythis page, with mentions of the Doomsday battle in BvS.Also just how amazing old!Superman looks onthis page.
Relationships: Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Lois Lane
Comments: 12
Kudos: 145





	Home is the Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts), [quidhitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/gifts), [liodain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liodain/gifts), [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/gifts).



> The past few months of self-isolation during the outbreak really gave me a rare opportunity to catch up with everything Superbat which I have loved since a kid. I dedicate this very first fic to four of my favorite authors who have brought me such joy and inspiration and whose work practically became my headcanon in one way or another.
> 
> I have made some small edits here and there. Any comment or feedback is welcome :)

Clark Kent stood alone in the middle of the Metropolis Memorial Cemetery, holding a small bouquet of red roses. It was quiet around, but the noises in his head were deafening. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused his senses on one thing at a time. 

The crisp and earthy smell of freshly mown grass soft under his soles. The cool late summer breeze caressing his face and rustling leaves of maple trees. The birds chirping and flapping their wings high and low. The Friday evening traffic as people hurried out of office buildings and back home to their loved ones.

Home. To their loved ones.

He sighed, opened his eyes, and spoke without turning to the familiar heartbeat that had been there since he walked in.

“Hello, Bruce. You don’t have to sulk in the corner.”

There were footsteps approaching behind him, slower and slightly limping with the cane, but otherwise as quiet as he ever remembered.

“Don’t be cute!” sounded the rough baritone. “I wasn’t sulking. Just didn’t want to intrude.”

Clark stared at the marble tombstone in front of him. The gold lettering shimmered in the rosy evening glow: _Lois Lane, Life is the Ultimate Adventure_. He knelt to put his small bouquet alongside an extravagant basket of red roses in full bloom. The fragrance was almost overwhelming.

“Thank you…for tending the grave while I was gone,” said Clark. “It means a great deal.”

“Bruce Wayne spares no expense when it comes to getting flowers for the ladies. I may be getting old, but I still have a reputation to keep.”

Clark let out a low chuckle.

“Lois deserves to be remembered. I admired her—” Bruce paused, “—mainly for putting up with you.”

Clark stood up and turned to finally face his old friend, smiling, “You always were an old softy.”

“What did I say about getting cute?” Something like doting affection mixed with nostalgia flashed over Bruce’s face. Clark’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. Bruce always had everything so tightly reined in that Clark found the briefest moment strange and endearing at the same time.

There were inevitable marks of time on his face, but Bruce had the same stern eyebrows, sharp eyes, and stubborn jaw as always. In those eyes Clark saw his own reflections, but he quickly turned away before looking into them for too long.

Maybe they were both getting soft, after all. Clark had been reminded countless times the things old age could do to even the toughest superheroes in the universe.

They stood side by side in comfortable silence, bathing in the breezy aroma of roses. Clark could sense something inchoate in the air that made his hair prickle and his chest heavy.

Finally, Bruce said, “I see you’re back to glasses and the Clark Kent routine.”

“This isn’t a disguise, Bruce. It’s who I am,” Clark pushed up his glasses, as if to make a point. “That’s why Lois never stopped calling me ‘Smallville.’”

“I guess you can’t take Kansas out of the man.”

“That,” Clarks smiled. From the corner of his eye, he saw a bench under a nearby maple tree. Bruce would never admit needing to rest, so Clark began walking over himself. Bruce followed, cursing silently as his knees crackled sitting down.

“I went back to our old apartment a few days ago. For the first time, actually, since Lois was gone.”

“Hmm.”

“After a decade, I…didn’t really feel sad anymore. Just…aimless. Empty. Lost.”

“So you decided to go after Armorgeddon.”

“I would have anyways.”

Bruce snickered, “Someone just can’t stop being the hero.”

“Says the man who still spends all day in front of monitors,” Clark countered. He suddenly realized he had missed bickering with this man.

“It’s so much easier for those of us without the super speed or invulnerability,” Bruce said lightly.

“You know, funny it might sound, I used to think you were the least vulnerable among us all. Or maybe just the least willing to let yourself be vulnerable.”

Bruce made an equivocal noise, leaning back to rest one arm across the back of the bench. Clark clasped his hands on his knees and continued.

“Last year when I came to see Lois, before I left, I was…mad at you. For forgetting how to let a woman into your heart, forgetting how good it could feel to be that vulnerable. For not understanding me.

“Now to think back, I was mad at you because I was frustrated—guilty, maybe—that you never had what I had had, that you never even knew how…” he felt his throat tightened, “…lonely you were.”

Bruce didn't say anything. A police siren shrieked from a distance, breaking the murmurs of running cars and rustling trees.

“In the past year, I’ve seen many other worlds. I wanted to feel those stars…before my time is over. And some of them were truly unique. But most of the time, I found them so similar to ours. We are all stardust, in the end.”

“Nobody lives forever.”

“Not even me, apparently,” Clark huffed sarcastically. “People used to say I was faster than a speeding bullet. It now takes quite a bit of effort to keep pace with that bullet.”

Bruce sat up straight, his elbow almost touching Clark’s, “I saw you on the news. You did just fine.”

“Thanks,” Clark patted Bruce’s knee and rested his hand there. Bruce let him. “When I fought Armorgeddon, I hadn’t felt that much pain in a long time. I really considered the possibility I might not survive the battle.”

Clark’s hand was only inches from Bruce’s on his knee. He tried not to look at them.

“Armorgeddon pierced right through my chest when I took him to space. And you know what I was thinking at that moment? I thought it felt just like when we first fought together against Doomsday, that Bruce would have come up with a much better strategy, that it would be too bad if I couldn’t live to tell him the story.”

“Enough,” Bruce said abruptly. “That’s enough.”

Clark stopped and turned to look at him. His face was inscrutable as always, but Clark could see his jaw clenching. Slowly, he put a hand on Clark’s, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly, hard bones and taut tendons over another.

For a moment, they just sat there. Clark could feel the warmth against his palm from underneath the fabric of Bruce’s pants, in contrast with the cold and slightly shivering hand on top. He put his other hand on it and felt Bruce leaned—ever so slightly—onto his shoulder.

Clark looked out to the looming shadows of trees and tombstones under the purpling sky, tracing his thumb over the veins on Bruce’s hand. He remembered Batman’s hands, unrelenting fists on their enemies and dexterous fingers defusing bombs during the final seconds. He remembered Brucie’s hands, loosely holding a champagne glass and waving absentmindedly to make another lurid remark that made the crowd gasp. He was surprised how vivid these images remained after so many years.

But now, it was just Bruce’s hand under his, with soft, wrinkled skin delicately wrapping the tensed muscles.

There was always something special about Bruce. Clark couldn’t name it exactly, perhaps because he had never had the chance—never allowed himself—to look into it. Something had probably taken root long ago, because why else would he always find reassurance in Bruce’s heartbeat during every battle; always trust him with his secrets, his fears, and his life; and always feel so naturally drawn to his side, even now as Clark had just returned to Earth?

He had never looked into it, having been preoccupied with being Superman, being with Lois, and all the responsibilities that came with them. Not until Bruce’s hand was now in his and decades of dust finally settled slowly in his heart.

With all the powers he had, he of all people should probably have seen things with the greatest clarity, but even he couldn’t do everything right. The press used to portray Superman as the omnipotent god, but Clark knew how he had missed important clues before, had failed people despite himself. There were many things he would probably have done differently, but for now, he would rather look ahead than back. Some things weren't too late to change.

He kept stroking the back of Bruce’s hand gently with his thumb, as if to soothe away years of aches and pains. Bruce let out a small sigh. Clark tuned in to his steady heartbeat and immersed himself in the rhythm. He didn’t remember the last time he ever felt so peaceful.

“I assume you’re going back to work,” Bruce said eventually, his voice hoarse.

“Jimmy Olsen offered me a job.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know, but I’m capable of doing both. I think I probably still have a few good years left.”

Bruce made a sardonic laugh, “Damn your Kryptonian DNA.”

“Or I could always retire—like you.”

“You’re being cute, again.”

Clark couldn’t resist but untangling his hands and wrapping his arm around Bruce, pulling him close.

Bruce shifted a bit to get more comfortable in his arm, but still didn’t look at him, “Have I ever told you that you look good in the black suit?”

“You think so?” Clark gave him the cheeky grin of the corn-fed farmboy.

“Took you long enough to recognize the superior palette of the Bat,” Bruce deadpanned.

“Alright, now _you_ ’re being cute,” Clark brushed a soft kiss along Bruce’s silvering hairline, feeling him chuckling slightly and leaning in more closely.

“Do you have any dinner plans?”

“Nope. Do you?”

“How about you pick a restaurant you like?” Bruce was already grabbing his cane, standing up. 

Clark smiled and followed suit, his arm still lingering on Bruce’s shoulder as they walked out of the cemetery.

“Clark?”

“Yes, Bruce.”

“Welcome home.”

Home. To his loved one.


End file.
